


In the Aftermath

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Post Season Four
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: The events at Sherrinford, and the anger of his parents at the revelations regarding Eurus have left Mycroft Holmes adrift. No longer the omnipotent, powerful shadow figure behind the British Government, he is now simply Mr. Holmes. Trying to discover if he can live a normal life, Mycroft has retired to the country. Every day he tests himself to meet with the public, to talk with people, to challenge his comfort zone.When the last man he expected to see in his small community arrives one morning, Mycroft's tentative new life is thrown into a tailspin. Can he pursue friendship with the one man whom he ever had any regard for? Will friendship be enough for him? Because surely there's no chance of anything more. Not with a man like Greg Lestrade.





	1. Respite

**Author's Note:**

> I have a LOT of anger with Mummy Holmes and the way she talked to Mycroft in The Final Problem. I cannot possibly address his issues appropriately, nor do as wonderful a job as I have seen other writers do in tackling how effed up his mind would be after sacrificing his life to his family and country and then having his mother essentially turn her back on all he did--whether or not it was all a good idea or not, he is still her son and I don't think most people can argue that Mycroft gave his all to keeping his family safe in the only ways he knew how. I want to address some of that and give him some peace and happiness.

          Ah…this was the best part of retirement, in his opinion. A perfectly brewed pot of tea, buttery crumpets and the newspapers. He walked into the village every day and purchased the best selection the newsagents had to offer; since his move to the village three years previous he had made a civil acquaintance with Rog, who ran the newsagents. Rog had obligingly ordered in a few select papers at his tentative request.

          The daily walk was part of his exercise routine; gone were the days he ran his treadmill in the dark solitude of his empty house. Now he walked everywhere, out in the fresh air, nodding affably at people he passed, occasionally hailed by the friendly sorts who weren’t entirely put off by his hidebound nature. Still, three years on, he found it hard to abandon his secretive, hermit-like ways and enter into a collegial conversation. But every day he tried.

          He liked to think he was getting a bit better.

          His polite conversations with Rog were part of his other routine: that of learning to relate to people. To further this end he did things he was not accustomed to previously consider, much less participate in. He followed the local football league so he had something to discuss as he flipped through his papers while Rog made change. In the early evenings, at least three times a week, when the local people were mostly departing work, he sat on a stool at the pub and drank his two lagers while listening to local gossip and trying out his casual conversation skills.

          One or two of the cheerful regulars had even begun to greet him by name. The barmaid (the twice divorced wife of the publican, it was a very complicated story) would greet him with a wink and put his usual down in front of him, asking him if he had reconsidered her offer of a friendly drink sometime? A very friendly drink, she always tacked on, chuckling at his red ears. He certainly hadn’t bothered to inform her that he was not interested in the company of women, but he did attempt to respond with a less-frigid than usual smile and a light response. It was all a bit like playacting, only he was trying to mean it.

          One of the other wonderful parts of retirement was that he now had time for one of his secret passions.

          Theatre.

          There was a fairly good village amateur dramatics society, which he had diffidently approached last year and offered his services in some small capacity. He wasn’t yet ready to take the stage, but he was quietly excited to be the prompter for the upcoming production of _Oklahoma!_ Much though he had always vociferously derided his parent’s taste in musical theatre, he loved it, and now he allowed himself to express his love by participating in this rousing musical. The idea of climbing into his little prompt corner and guiding the cast through the experience was exciting. His eidetic memory and instant recall of details would stand him in good stead.

          Perhaps one day he would venture onto the stage. Not as a principal; after all, no one wanted to see a pasty, doughy, middle-aged man with thinning ginger hair trying to impart verve and romance to parts like Curly McLain or Sky Masterson. But he could perhaps be one of the belligerent background of farmers, or a besuited craps player.

          There were things, very pleasant things about his new life (note to self, it has been three years, it is not new, it is just your life), and it was part of his new approach to remind himself of said things, and to find additional pleasures. Sometimes it was as small as the fact that the widowed Postmistress, Alma Browne, grew Lady Emma Hamilton roses in decorative pots outside the Post Office. He did not have a terribly green thumb but thoroughly enjoyed flowers (next year’s objective was to inveigle his way into the Garden Club).

          There was a small but quite delightful bakery that he frequented at least once a week; daily would have been his visits if his waistline would not have expanded  at a rate rapid enough to alarm even the most lackadaisical of physicians. He varied his visits, but he always came in the morning, just in time for elevenses. Slowly he was becoming a recognizable figure. Matrons nodded and smiled, retired gentlemen rattled their newspapers and murmured a greeting and responded willingly to his hesitant sallies about the weather, or the latest farming news. Perhaps in ten years or so he would be relaxed enough, accepted enough, that they might call him by his Christian name.

 

******

 

          Today was a slow, quiet Tuesday, and he had just occupied the lone vacant table in the small teashop located in the front of the bakery, about to enjoy his really quite decent cup of green tea and his weekly indulgence, which at present was a slice of Bakewell Tart. Inhaling the steam, he closed his eyes, hunting out the different varietals and nuances, letting his mind relax as he breathed in, consciously reminding himself that it was not stressful to interact with his fellow village dwellers. While he did not, by any stretch of the imagination, have friends, he did have acquaintances and there was no one who was unkind, rude or dismissive of him; even if most people could not have produced a handful of facts about him upon direct questioning he was still an accepted member of this community.

          Centered, he picked up his tea cup and took a first sip, enjoying the delicate flavour. Immediate thirst satiated, he set down his cup and lifted his fork toward the delectable pastry awaiting the inaugural bite. His hand was arrested, however, when he heard a familiar voice say cheerfully, “No problem, miss! Cute little lad you have there…seems a handful!”

          No. No, it was not possible. It was— it was but a figment of his imagination. _He_ could not be here.

          Unable to keep from looking, he cut his eyes toward the door, and witnessed the casual gallantry of the silver-haired man holding open the door for a young mother who was trying to steer a pram whilst maintaining a grip on a most energetic young boy. Ah, young Rose Beverly and her youngest born and the tiny hell-spawn she called her eldest. Bernard. The little—

          No, no he had set himself a firm rule not to denigrate the boy, loathsome though he was. Rotten, leather-lunged miniature delinquent though the shin-kicking, trouser bespoiling, sticky lolly-sucking child might be, it was important that he not alienate anyone by dressing down the clearly overwhelmed and overworked young woman on the raising of her hideous child.

          It was easier by far to think about hideous Bernard than to acknowledge that his pulse was racing, his nerves were aflame and his mind was whirling as he watched the still very fine figure of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade—his former ally in wrangling his troublesome younger brother, the far too handsome to be straight and single member of the Metropolitan Police, the undeniably sexy and flirtatious silver fox of NSY—stroll over to the counter and cheerfully banter with Maisie the baker’s grandmother. Maisie had no time for nonsense.

          Although apparently she had time for Gregory.

          _Lestrade_ , not Gregory. Or _Detective Inspector_. It was far too forward to address him, even in his thoughts, in so familiar a manner. Never mind that he had been doing it for years.

          Yes, look at him so easily chatting and smiling, already drawing a laugh from the rather dour Maisie. She had certainly never smiled at him that way. Her looks had been particularly dark since he made the mistake of recommending a better brand of tea to her. Rookie error, and he was only now managing to humbly dig himself out of the rather deep hole he had created. Alas, he had not the nature, charm nor looks to captivate as did the good Inspector.

          Who was turning around and surveying the premises, looking for an empty table. Quickly looking away, a brief petition to a previously unfeeling universe was silently loosed with a good deal of pleading. Please, please let him not have seen him. Let him not have recognized him! If the fates were kind his surreptitious ogling and undignified scramble to hide said ogling had gone unnoticed.

          “Excuse me, do you mind if I share this table with you? It’s a busy place, isn’t it?”

          Oh dear.

          “I promise I’ll be quiet as the quietest mouse that ever moused.  Really, no talking at all— _Mycroft?_ ”

 

******

 

          Relaxation, that was what he was seeking. A lovely long holiday in the countryside, walking and fishing and breathing all that sweet country air; eating good food, necking a few too many beers with the locals, maybe taking a hike and flinging (okay, more like lowering, at his age) himself to the ground and just watching the clouds pass by.

          The last fifteen years of his life had been undeniably interesting, but also hectic, stressful, heartbreaking and ultimately unhealthy. As his career advanced, so did his levels of stress. The introduction of Sherlock Holmes into his life had necessitated a good deal of peacekeeping, enduring no thanks but many barbs, and with essentially no payoff other than an increase in closed cases. Which was great, of course, but hardly compensated a man for later than usual late nights, insults and embarrassing deductions, endless headaches and a lot of bother.

          On top of that had been a decrease in the time he spent just unwinding (in some fashion that didn’t involve alcohol), a definite diminishment of holidays actually taken, an increase of his consumption of greasy, salty, calorie-laden fast food, an unsettling exposure to the media, and a widening gulf between him and his wife (ex-wife for six years now, actually), Barbara. His job hadn’t helped, but neither had her continued infidelity. Finally they had called it quits and parted ways more or less amicably, if for no reason other than that neither of them cared all that much anymore.

          And wasn’t that a sad fucking commentary on his life?

          With his promotion last year to DCI, Greg had spent even more time behind a desk, in godawful meetings, closeted with colleagues and superiors who were all, to a man, overweight, unhappy, balding and bitter. It wasn’t exactly the giddy pinnacle of success he had imagined.

          Thankfully he still had his hair, although it was gray, but that was nothing new, seeing as he’d been past salt-and-pepper before his fortieth birthday. His bum, however, seemed to be in danger of flattening at all the chair time he’d put in; and his gut was not exactly flabby, but it also could not, even by the most generous of standards, be considered flat. He’d finally given up smoking a few years before, so his breathing was better, but still his doctor had warned him at his last physical that he needed to de-stress and consider some lifestyle changes or he was in danger of encroaching health issues and, given his family history, a possible heart attack if he continued on as he was.

          So, here he was, relaxing. Alone. Hoping two weeks in this idyllic village would refresh his spirits and improve his stress levels. From here he was supposed to take the train to Scotland and meet an old friend for some fishing for still another week. All the fresh air and activity would do him good. Hopefully he could tone up his middle and avoid further bum-flattening sitting. A lot of walking was in order, although this currant bun was not. But to hell with it, he was eating the damn bun.

          _If_ he could find a table; prospects looked a bit grim. If nothing else he supposed he could walk to the charming stone bridge which crossed the shallow, sparkling brown river that divided the town, and lean on it, nonchalantly eating his bun. But it would be preferable to eat it here, with his cup of coffee and the newspaper he had tucked in his back pocket. Given his fears of bum-flattening, he should eschew the chair and walk, but it was his holiday, damn it, and he was going to sit and read like a civilized man.

          Ah, there was a possibility; a lone man sat at a small two-top, ginger head buried in a broadsheet. He looked quiet, professorial; tweeds, leather brogues, horn-rimmed glasses. Perhaps with a friendly smile and a promise of silence, Greg could coax him into sharing his table.

          “Excuse me, do you mind if I share this table with you? It’s a busy place, isn’t it?”

          Hello, look up and see my nice, friendly smile. I can barely see you, aside from an ear and the aforementioned ginger hair.

          “I promise I’ll be quiet as the quietest mouse that ever moused,” _Jesus, Greg, really? The man is going to pretend to speak Russian or something, just so he can continue ignoring you and your babbling idiocy_. “Really, no talking at all— _Mycroft?_ ”

          To say he was surprised was a bit of an understatement. For the first time in his life he could safely say his mind boggled. Not waiting for an invitation, Greg dropped into the chair opposite the man he hadn’t seen in almost four years and stared. “Are you—what are you doing here?” Suddenly an idea occurred to him and his voice dropped, “Are you undercover?”

          Mycroft, who was already staring at him with his mouth open, looked astonished. Finally he closed his mouth. “Erm, no. I am…I live here.”

          “Here? You live _here_?”

          “Well, not in the bakery, obviously,” Mycroft smiled weakly, “But yes, I live in this village. For the past three years, come September.” Mycroft seemed to have gathered his wits, an act Greg wished he could copy. “Why on earth should you think me undercover?”

          He stumbled, embarrassed, “Oh…well…I mean, here you are in this little out of the way place, looking like a retired professor, with ginger hair and glasses…I thought maybe you were in disguise.”

          “It’s, erm, it’s my natural hair colour,” Mycroft murmured, smoothing a fluttering hand over his hair, ears going hot pink. It was a surprisingly adorable look on him.

          Wait, adorable? Mycroft Holmes?

          No, yeah…Mycroft Holmes. Greg felt his own ears go hot and hoped that somehow the younger man’s time in this sleepy hamlet had dulled his deductive skills. He was feeling sort of…warm and tingly. Not a feeling he had felt for a long time, and certainly never for a bloke.

          “It looks good on you.” _Stupid mouth! Who gave you permission to spew out my inner thoughts? Thank God there’s some kind of filter still in place._

          More than Mycroft’s ears were red now. He looked like he wanted to retreat behind his newspaper, but he was made of sterner stuff than that, and managed to meet Greg’s eyes. “Thank you, Detective Inspector, that’s most kind of you. I must confess I’ve always hated my hair, thus the subterfuge of dying it, which I undertook at the age of nineteen, when I suffered at the infantile hands of my fellow university students.”

          “I’ve always had a thing for red-heads.” _Oh. My. God. Filter down, filter down!_

Hands trembling ever so slightly, Mycroft Holmes picked up his tea cup and busied himself with a sip. Notice he hadn’t responded; probably thought it would be more polite to ignore the ravings of a madman.

          “I like your glasses too,” _What are you_ doing _?!_ “You’ve got that sexy teacher thing going.” He did, at that. _Reprimand me, professor_. Well at least he hadn’t said _that_ out loud.

          Apparently the elder Holmes had forgotten how to swallow, as he was now choking on his tea. Hacking and wheezing, he managed to clear his airway, waving off Greg’s hovering. The ladies in the bakery were fluttering about, but they settled when Greg flashed them a smile and assured them it was all under control. At least something was under control, though sadly not his mouth.

          “…what brings you to the area?” Mycroft finally asked. It was clearly not what he had been intending on saying. Greg found himself quite curious to know what he had edited from the conversation. However, the two of them needed a little time not embarrassing themselves and if it took talk of his boring holiday, then so be it.

          “Doctor’s orders,” said Greg, who had been planning on mentioning fishing and hikes.

          “Gregory, you are unwell?” What a surprisingly alarmed and concerned tone had entered the other man’s voice. How very nice it was to hear his name spoken by the man he’d once thought lived up to his Ice Man moniker.

          “Not exactly…I was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector last year and it’s been an adjustment. Plus, I’m not getting younger and my doctor told me I needed to make some changes, starting with more leisure activities and a change in diet.”

          “I understand completely,” Mycroft said with a shake of his head. “When one is so blindly dedicated to one’s chosen career so as to ignore all the warning signs and proceed as if invincibility were one’s middle name…”

          “I’d have rather thought omnipotent was your middle name,” Greg teased gently, and gave an inner fist pump when it earned him a genuine smile.

          “Not now,” Mycroft assured him. “Those days are behind me. No more CCTV, no more twenty-four hour a day access to a fleet of agents, no more PA, not even,” he dropped his voice, as if imparting a state secret, the birth pangs of what might have been a twinkle in his stunning gray-blue eyes, “a smart phone.”

          “What?” Greg exaggerated his shock, hand to chest, jaw hanging open, “I don’t believe it! You must be some sort of clone. Where’s the real Mycroft Holmes?”

          “I should rather think I was more believable as a clone before,” Mycroft parried, with a slight awkwardness which was quite endearing.

          “Naw,” Greg assured him, quite involuntarily smiling his best twinkly-eyed smile, the one he used when he was interested in a woman. He tried to rein it in but gave up the cause as lost. The other man was drawing out his long-dormant flirty side. “You were a hard-working, dedicated man, up to your neck in responsibility and secrets, handling it all with gravitas and grace…you were the farthest thing from a clone I’ve ever met.”

          Amazingly he seemed to have truly touched Mycroft. Had no one ever dared to tell him how brilliant he was? That was a crying shame, in his humble opinion.

          “Thank you,” Mycroft said at last, glancing away, clearly unsure how to proceed. “That is…you are most kind, Detective Inspector.”

          “It’s Detective Chief Inspector now, Mycroft,” Greg joked, “But that’s a mouthful. I liked it when you called me Gregory before. Or Greg, if you like.”

          “That was unpardonably rude of me,” he apologized, “But you are kind to encourage familiarity. Gregory it is.”

          He was so formal, so old-fashioned, maybe a bit fuss-budgety. It really shouldn’t have been as charming as it was. But damned if Greg didn’t find it really, really charming.

          “Sorry if I was rude, calling you Mycroft without invitation,” Greg said, a bit embarrassed. In the past he’d always called him Mr. Holmes or sir.

          “No, no, please…I am…I am trying to be a different man. I quite like it.”

          “There’s no need to be a different man,” Greg countered, “Mycroft Holmes is just fine as he is.” He tilted his head, “Maybe what you’re trying for is to be a more relaxed version of yourself?”

          “That would not be incorrect. Although to be perfectly precise, I was not a relaxed man before. But I am striving to learn patience, tolerance, and,” Mycroft did that cute ear flushing thing again, “kindliness.”

          “Definitely not a different man. You were the most patient, controlled human being I had ever met before. You tolerated Sherlock’s dramatics and barbs, John’s snark and my unasked for familiarity with aplomb. And as for kind?” Greg looked into those slightly widened twilight blue eyes, “Who else would have ensured the continued happiness, well-being, stimulation, entertainment and safety of a man as difficult as your brother when he received no thanks or consideration in return?”

          “You flatter me…or paint me with a brush rendered inaccurate by time and distance.”

          “Not at all,” Greg countered firmly, “I’ve long admired you.”

         

******

 

          Gregory admired him. _Him_ , Mycroft Holmes, the man whom even his own family despised.

          Thank goodness for his decades as the Ice Man. The last three years hadn’t completely eroded his ability to mask his emotions. It was not, perhaps, as implacable a mask as previously it might have been, but it was definitely still useful when one was feeling absurdly emotional. Given the general awkwardness of the encounter, and the complete absence of desire on anyone’s part to willingly spend time with him, Mycroft might have assumed—did assume—that after they drained their cups they would nod and part ways with empty platitudes about meeting for coffee sometime if schedules permitted.

          Clearly he underestimated Gregory Lestrade.

          They were currently walking up Grainger’s Hill, from where there was a very pleasing vista of the gentle valley that held Little Riverton, and which showed off the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside. It was a breezy day, overcast but comfortable. It was best viewed on a sunny day, when the shadows of fat clouds sailed merrily over the dips and swells of grassy fields and dark hedgerows, or—and this was Mycroft’s favorite—on days when a good storm threatened. Then the landscape was thrown into relief, dramatic shadows cast by the rocks and crags of the hill, a steely glint shining on the surface of the River Combe.

          The entirety of the valley and the surrounding farms seemed to brood under the turbulent sky; it was wilder, more remote, the winds tugging at one’s clothes, the edge of danger from standing under the open sky and recklessly courting disaster…it took him back to the shadowy days when he worked behind the scenes of government. The days when he seemed to exist in darkness, to thrive on challenge, danger, disaster.

          It had come as a surprise to him just how addicted to it all he was. Being the eye at the center of the storm.

          Now he spent his days trying to learn to appreciate the lull. It was damnably hard some times. He longed to be useful. But there was too much danger in London; danger to his mental faculties, danger to his pride, his ego, his reputation.

          Today, here, with Gregory, the weather was calm and so was the other man. Mycroft reminded himself that the storm had passed and he sailed in calm seas now.

          “This is gorgeous,” Gregory said, “It’s really beautiful here, Mycroft.”

          “A far cry from London. There are times I miss it.” Mycroft clasped his hands behind him, “And other times when I am grateful to be where I am.”

          “No reason you can’t come for the occasional visit…” Was that a note of hope in the other man’s voice?

          “I…suppose.” Mycroft chose his words with care, “There has not, until now, seemed to be any reason why I should visit.”

          “And if there was a reason?” He could feel the other man turn his head toward him; Mycroft imagined the smile on his darkly handsome face. “Would that make a difference?”

          “I suppose…I suppose it depends on the reason.” Mycroft felt uncomfortable, wondering if he was reading into Gregory’s words something that wasn’t there. He pointed, “If you look just there beyond that line of trees to the west, do you see that little field-stone house with the red roof? That is my home.”

          “Looks cozy,” Gregory commented.

          “It is much smaller than my home in Knightsbridge, but it is sufficient for my needs.” Should he? “If you would care to, perhaps you could come for dinner one night while you are here?”

          “I’d like that a lot,” the other man’s reply was gratifyingly swift. Mycroft flushed.

          “We shall have to choose a day. Now, if you’re up for a bit more of a climb, there are the remains of an old Roman tower just on the other side of this copse. It looks a shambles, but it is structurally sound.”

          “Great!”

          It was quite warming, to have this gorgeous man so eager to spend time with him. Or at least, to suffer his presence in the interest of exploring old ruins.   

          No. He mustn’t think that way. His therapist had counseled him not to automatically assume that everyone was looking only for the benefit to themselves. It was hard to change those patterns, to believe that someone would wish to be in his company without some ulterior motive which would benefit them.

          It was just possible that the man—the man that in the past, even in his private thoughts, he had never quite admitted to having a school-boyish affinity for—genuinely wanted to spend time in his company. Just Mycroft and Gregory.

 

******

 

          After what turned out to be a surprising morning, followed by a brilliant walk and nearly two hours exploring the countryside and the old Roman tower, Greg reluctantly said goodbye to Mycroft. He never would have suspected Sherlock’s diffident and cold-eyed brother to be such great company. But he’d had a really good time.

          So good, in fact, that he didn’t want to say goodbye.

          Not giving himself time to think, Greg turned and jogged after Mycroft. “Mycroft! Hey!” He slowed down when the other man turned, “Those long legs cover a lot of ground…hey, um.” He sternly warned himself not to blush, “I was thinking…how about we have dinner tonight? My treat?”

          Well that look was a look of surprise if ever he’d seen one. It took a lot to surprise a Holmes. “That is most kind of you, Gregory. However…”

          However. Right. Yeah. Time for the brush off. He was probably done with spending time with him. Not like he was going to be stimulating company for a man that intelligent. Mycroft’s offer of dinner at his was probably just one of those polite things polite people say.

          “However, I do have an obligation this evening. Perhaps we could reschedule? Tomorrow?”

          Greg couldn’t have stopped his grin from taking over his entire face if he had tried. “Brilliant! I-I mean, great. Yeah. Um, great.” _Shut. Up. Greg_. “How’s seven work for you? Or earlier? I could do earlier. Give us time for a few drinks and a chat.”

          Mycroft smiled, looking almost shy, “That sounds splendid. Shall we meet at the pub?”

          “Perfect! See you there then. At the pub. At six.”

          “Or even at five?” Mycroft asked, smiling roguishly.

          Greg blushed despite his best efforts, “Five, yeah. It’s a—yeah, see you there then.” He left before he could embarrass himself any further. If he had looked back he would have seen Mycroft looking over his shoulder several times, until the bend of the road took him out of sight.

         


	2. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft's friendly pint at the pub turns into the beginnings of a date. Despite his confusion of just what his attraction to Mycroft means, Greg is eager to see him again. Mycroft, however, is having second thoughts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the length of time it took to get this second chapter up! Not only was I struggling with the chapter itself (a very torrid sex scene kept trying to worm its way in, but I wasn't ready for it yet and had to show it who was in charge), but also RL interfered in the form of Hurricane Harvey, and a huge increase in my work load. I hope this chapter was worth waiting for. With any luck I'll be able to update sooner on the next one :)

          “Mycroft, hey!” Greg stood up and waved from a corner booth, loud and cheerful, and instantly drawing attention first to him, and then to Mycroft, who stood in the doorway to the pub. He was accustomed to slipping inside, nodding and smiling genially at all before finding an inconspicuous seat. He was not at all used to being the momentary center of interest; keeping his face bland, Mycroft raised a hand in greeting and worked his way across the pub, quietly returning greetings. Small chance now of remaining inconspicuous.

          “Gregory,” he greeted, slipping into the booth, automatically clocking the patrons, noting any potential problems, filing away overly interested glances, all while keeping a respectable distance between them. He caught his own thoughts and stifled a snort. As if there needed to be any worry; the other man was hardly likely to interpret his distance or nearness as anything other than social awkwardness.

          “I ordered a pint for you,” Greg smiled, pushing forward a second glass. “Don’t worry, I asked after your favourite.”

          “Oh?” Mycroft asked cautiously, taking a sip. It was indeed his most preferred order. “I did not realize I was so predictable.”

          “Everyone has a fall back drink,” Greg raised his own very dark ale as case in point, “The very friendly barmaid listened to my description of you and pulled this straight away. She said it was sure to please.”

          “Description? Dare I ask how you perceive me?”

          Greg took a healthy swallow of his pint, licked his lips, “Nope.”

          “Nope?”

          “Nope.” He dabbed a fingertip in a droplet of condensation on the bar mat, “Not until I’ve had a few more drinks, any road.”

          Mycroft counseled his heart to cease its rapid escalation. “I shudder to think what dire words will rise to your mind when you’re several drinks deep into the evening.” Did he dare hope they might actually be complimentary? Gregory Lestrade was, after all, a friendly and gracious man, he was hardly likely to be rude about an acquaintance.

          “Nothing but good things,” the other man assured him. “Hopefully I don’t get too chatty. I’ve been known to get a bit loud and boisterous whilst drinking.”

          “You? Loud?” Mycroft joked.

          “Impossible to picture, innit?”

          “I can’t imagine it.”

          “It does happen. My natural shyness dissolves after a few drinks.” A swallow of ale, and then his tongue swiped over his wet lower lip, “My inhibitions too.” His elbow gave Mycroft’s arm a friendly nudge, “Stop me from doing anything too shameful, won’t you?”

          Oh. Well. Yes, most people’s inhibitions did tend to weaken in the face of alcohol consumption. There was nothing to be read into his words. Although there had been a certain something in his tone…

 

******

 

          “I excelled in archery at school,” Mycroft boasted, planting his feet firmly for stability; the room seemed a bit off…these old pubs and their uneven floors. _Tsk_. “I shall no doubt dominate this game. Holmeses are naturally competitive, superior and, and good.”

          “’s’at a fact?” Greg sounded amused, polishing off his latest pint. Mycroft had quite lost count. Was it the fifth round? The sixth? “Well, we didn’t study archery at my school, but I’ve been playing darts since I was old enough to see the board.” He leaned in, the heat of his body suffusing Mycroft’s back, his voice rumbling pleasantly, “Maybe I’ll dominate you. Never know.”

          “I shall relish the attempt,” Mycroft flirted over his shoulder. Oh dear. He really hadn’t meant to _flirt_. Damn the man’s captivating smile, and his bewilderingly sexy scent, and his deep voice…and those large, capable hands…and his devilish dark eyes…

          “Gentlemen first,” Greg gestured to the board, and waved over his head at the barmaid, signaling for another round. “Winner pays the tab.”

          “I hope your purse is deep,” Mycroft said grandly, taking aim.

 

******

 

          “These are great chips, aren’t they?” Greg enthused, licking his fingers. “I meant to treat you to a proper meal, but we stayed at the pub too late.”

          “Mm, these are quite tasty,” Mycroft allowed wiping his fingers fastidiously on the clutch of paper napkins Greg had entrusted him with. “I can feel my arse getting fatter by the mouthful, but I’m too drunk to care.”

          “Nonsense,” Greg scoffed, “You’re slim and fit.” _And funny and sexy and great company_ , he thought a bit muzzily, recognizing that he was drunk, but not overly concerned with the fact. It had been a fantastic evening, and he was glad it wasn’t over yet. It was just because he had been drinking that he was thinking, and saying, things like that to the man. Luckily Mycroft had been drinking as well or it would be awkward. Tomorrow neither of them would recall Greg’s borderline flirting. Hopefully.

          “You’re obviously drunk.” Mycroft chewed, swallowed, “or kind.”

          “Well, I hope I’m kind, but I’m honest too, even if I am a bit tight. You’re not fat, not by a long shot.” Greg snorted forcefully, “Fat! You should see the arse on you.” He hadn’t censored that inner thought fast enough. Damn the drink. What was _wrong_ with him? Judging by Mycroft’s expression he himself wasn’t drunk enough to have missed that slipping out. They looked away awkwardly. “Thirsty,” Greg said a bit too loudly, and gulped at his soda.

          “Yes,” Mycroft agreed, his voice rife with gratitude at this gambit, “The excess of pints rendered me quite parched as well.” He sucked at the straw of his own sugary beverage.

          “Hope you won’t have too sore a head on you tomorrow,” Greg said, feeling a bit guilty. He’d delighted in seeing Mycroft unbend, setting aside his reserve to laugh and talk and enjoy himself; he hadn’t considered that the other man might have plans the following day, unlike himself, who had only to sleep in and then do as he pleased.

          “It has been a long time since I last indulged to this extent, but I can lie abed in the morning if need be,” Mycroft folded his paper plate and finished his drink, “I don’t any calls upon my time until the evening, when we have rehearsal.” His perfect diction whilst drunk is both impressive and slightly sexy.

          Okay, really sexy. This couldn’t all be down to the drink. The man was some kind of incubus, turning his thoughts to sex.

          “Rehearsal?” Greg perked up as his brain caught up with the conversation, “For what?”

          “I participate in the local community theatre,” Mycroft admitted, “In the humble position of prompter only, but I do admit I enjoy it.”

          “Sounds great! What play are you rehearsing?”

          “ _Oklahoma!_ The cast is valiant, but they struggle at times with memorizing the lines. The songs themselves seem to stick better in the collective memory.”

          “My mum always loved that one, she used to hum “Surrey with the Fringe on Top” when she was in a good mood.” Greg finished his chips and crumpled the paper plate, wiping his mouth with his ragged napkin, “I bet you’re perfect as a prompter, that great big brain of yours probably has every word, pause and step down already, hasn’t it?”

          “It has,” Mycroft admitted, “Both a blessing and a curse. I have to either ruthlessly delete things, or else rigidly file them in my mind, or it all goes…higgledy-piggledy.”

          “Hope you don’t delete tonight,” Greg retorted, “Even if I did wipe the floor with you.”

          “There is a deeply nefarious gamester lurking in your soul, I fear,” Mycroft said lightly, standing. Greg felt unaccountably disappointed. Of course, it was late and they’d just spent the better part of six hours together; he needed to let the man get home to his bed. “But I shall not forget a moment of it…if nothing else I need to recall the depth and breadth of your perfidy.” There is a smile lurking in his voice.

          “Oh!” Greg pretended to be stricken in the heart, staggering a few steps, grinning as Mycroft laughed. “Perfidy, is it? Just for that, I won’t offer to take you out for a proper meal.”

          “This was a proper meal,” Mycroft objected mildly, taking his hand in thanks as they ascended the slope of the bank from where they had been sitting on a bench next to the river. His shoes slipped slightly on the damp grass and Greg held on tighter, pulling him up the slope after him, “Drinks, excellent conversation, laughter, food and even dining by moonlight.” He laughed again, a sound Greg decided he was fast becoming addicted to. “We’re surprisingly cosmopolitan here in Little Riverton.”

          _It’s been like a date_ , Greg thought, looking up that extra inch or two into Mycroft’s eyes and swallowing hard at the on-rush of feeling that kept taking him by surprise.  He didn’t understand how he could be feeling this feeling now, here in this moment, with this man. He wasn’t gay. Surely he’d have known by now, at the age of fifty four, if he were gay. But the feeling he had when he looked at Mycroft Holmes, it was the kind of feeling he was used to when he met a woman he was attracted to, “Lots more going on here than I expected when I arrived.” _Am I gay? Or I guess it would be bi. Wouldn’t I have noticed by now? Why am I not more bothered by this?_

          “I too was surprised by the richness of life in a small village,” Mycroft confessed, turning with him toward the inn. The road was quiet, the businesses dark, houses settled in for the night. Greg tipped his head up to look at the stars and staggered as his equilibrium tilted off its axis. “It was a huge adjustment at first, but I must admit that despite some growing pangs and times when I had difficulty acclimating to a completely different life…well, it has overall been a positive experience.”

          “That’s wonderful,” Greg said thoughtfully, steps slowing as they approached the inn; he wasn’t quite ready for the night to be over. “I’m really happy to know life has been good for you. I’ve actually been dreaming of retirement these last few years…I sort of expected I’d work forever and either die on the job or maybe make it to old age and live in some care center for aged coppers, dreaming of my glory days. Gotta say, neither really appeals.”

          “What would your ideal retirement be?” Mycroft asked curiously, steps slowing, as if he too was reluctant for them to part.

          “Hmm…time to read all the books I never finish, do a bit of travel, maybe learn to cook…fish when I want…” Greg huffed out a laugh, “Maybe a hut on a beach somewhere, just live in shorts and sunglasses, drink those little drinks with the umbrellas in them.” He sighed, “That’d be brilliant.”

          “It sounds lovely.”

          “I’ve not got the money for island life, sadly. Unless it’s a scrubby, mean little island, with lots of noisy tourists and bugs.”

          “Not so lovely,” Mycroft said, the laughter back. It was pretty brilliant, hearing Mycroft Holmes with that thread of amusement in his voice. He wished he could see his smile.

          “No.” Greg allowed, sighing dramatically.

          “You could always find someone to share your island, split the expenses.”

          “Mm, but then I’d need to find someone I could stand to be around twenty-four seven.”

          “There _is_ that. Speaking of twenty four hours…I’d best say goodnight before it is truly time to say good morning.”

          “Yeah…” Greg cracked his knuckles, “Sorry for the late hour. I hope you make it home alright. Need me to walk you?”

          In the sulfurous yellow of the security light Mycroft’s face looked washed out, but his smile was brilliant. “Who then would walk you home?”

          “I can take care of myself.”

          “As can I.” Mycroft took a step back. “I enjoyed myself immensely, Greg.”

          “Me too.” Greg hesitated, looking down as he fished his room key out of his pocket, “So um, call me if you feel like joining me for some fishing. Or, I dunno, another walk maybe?”

          “Yes, I’d like that.” Mycroft half turned, telegraphing reluctance in every line of his body. He had to be, he _had to be_ as unwilling to part as Greg was. _I’m not so drunk that I’m misreading him_ , Greg thought, _although God knows what’s going on with_ me. “Goodnight, Greg.”

          “G’night,” Greg told himself not to watch the man walk away; he turned and fumbled his way into his room, flicking on the harsh overhead light and promising himself a nice hot shower before bed. Give him time to clear his head of drink-assisted fancies.

 

******

 

          “Stop mocking me,” Greg mumbled at his fishing gear, which was standing reproachfully next to the window. How on earth could the watery English sun have managed to find the one chink in his curtains and make it all the way across to the bed to bore into his eyes every time he ventured to open them? Clearly he wasn’t as young as he used to be, if seven pints did him this kind of disservice. “Just won’t open my eyes then,” he decided.

          A decision which lasted no time at all as he promptly stubbed his toe when trying to shuffle cautiously to the loo. Only dire need of the toilet saw him leaving the bed. That and the absolute imperative of downing some painkillers and water as fast as possible; thankfully he didn’t feel like spewing, but his head was murdering him. Limping painfully, clutching his head, Greg began to regret his excesses of the night before. Bladder emptied, two glasses of water consumed and painkillers hopefully already starting to do their work, he forced himself to twitch at the curtains—to no avail, the bastards—before giving up and crawling back into bed. Covers over his head, he drifted in and out of sleep for the next few hours, until his head was marginally better and he had to get up to empty himself of the two glasses of water.

          There were tea makings in the room, but no coffee. Fumbling about, he managed to get a cup steeping. Badly as he craved coffee there was no way he was dressing and venturing out just yet, although soon his stomach was going to insist on breakfast. Sunglasses on as defense against the bastard sun, Greg took his tea to bed, arranging the pillows behind him so he could sit in relative comfort. Halfway through his tea, he wondered if Mycroft was feeling alright. He got the idea that the other man didn’t indulge to that extent. Guilt twanged at his conscience, and not stopping to second guess himself, Greg tapped out a text.

 

******

 

          Mycroft, clad in his dressing gown and with wildly disordered hair, was ensconced in his favourite chair in the lounge, one hand cradling his head, and the other his tea cup. It was nearly noon and he had yet to manage more than making it downstairs and furnishing himself with a cup of tea. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d been this hungover—he wasn’t sure he ever had been this hungover, actually—and while he didn’t regret the night, he did regret the third pint. As well as the fourth, fifth, sixth and possibly seventh. There was a reason he limited himself to two.

          Thankfully he wasn’t so hungover that he had forgotten the night. It had been…perfect. The only thing which could have made it more perfect would have been if the desire he’d imagined in Greg’s eyes had been real. Although after seven pints he wasn’t entirely certain either of them would have been capable of acting on it. Certainly there was no denying that mild inebriation would have allowed him to relax enough to go through with it.

          It had been an appallingly long time since his last sexual encounter.

          Greg was curious perhaps, but Mycroft wasn’t interested in serving as an experiment. His heart might be mythical, but it would no doubt feel the effects of briefly knowing the glory of sharing a bed with Greg Lestrade and then saying goodbye to him forever. Mycroft was if nothing else a highly practical man. Despite one or two things the older man had said, Greg wasn’t at all likely to pursue a friendship once his holiday was over. And of course, _he_ didn’t really do friendships. And trying to remain friends after a shared sexual experience was doomed. And it was all in his head anyway.

          Certainly it was.

          Mycroft massaged his temples and put down his cup with a sigh when his mobile pinged. Long habit had him checking it immediately, although messages these days were never urgent. Although Sherlock often had a differing opinion as to the meaning of the word “urgent.” It wasn’t a rare message from his younger brother, however, but Greg.

          CHRIST, THE HEAD ON ME. YOU ALIVE?

          Mycroft hesitated, then answered. **I’M CLINGING TO LIFE WITH WHITE KNUCKLES. PERHAPS A SECOND POT OF TEA WILL REVIVE ME.**

          I’VE HAD TWO CUPS AND IT’S BOLLOCS. I NEED COFFEE.

          BOLLOCKS. I KNOW HOW TO SPELL BOLLOCKS.

          **YOUR PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHER WOULD NO DOUBT BE PROUD.**

AH, DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH! FUNNY BUGGER, AREN’T YOU?

          **APOLOGIES FOR ANY INADVERTENT LAUGHING I MAY HAVE INSPIRED. YOU ARE THE FIRST PERSON TO HAVE ACCUSED ME OF THAT.**

**BEING HUMOUROUS, I MEAN.**

Why had he sent that last text?!

          FOLKS ACCUSE YOU OF BUGGERY OFTEN, DO THEY? ;)

          **NOT LATELY**.

          Pathetic.  He was _so_ pathetic. And what was he to read into that winky face? Was Greg letting him know he was “cool” with the fact of his being gay? Was he flirting? Was he suggesting…something?

          BEEN A BIT OF A DRY SPELL? ME TOO. PROBBLY MY AGE. CHRIST WHEN DID I GET TO BE SO OLD?

          PROBABLY. JESUS MY HEAD I CAN’T SEE. OR MAYBE ITS JUST MY OLD EYES. HA HA.

          **I HARDLY THINK YOUR AGE IS A DETERRENT.**

 _Stop, just stop. Why are you doing this? You may as well fling yourself at his feet and beg him to ravage you_.

          NO? THANKS FOR THAT. WHAT IS IT THEN?

          THE REASON I’VE NOT PULLED IN FAR FAR TOO LONG?

          IS IT MY BREATH? I BET ITS MY BREATH.

          OH GOD, IT IS MY BREAHT…IVE JUST CHECKED IT AND SMELLS LIKE I LIKED THE PUB FLOOR.

          **YOUR BREATH IS FINE AS IS THE REST OF YOU. I AM THE LAST PERSON TO ASK FOR DATING ADVICE. THE “VERY FRIENDLY BARMAID” FROM LAST NIGHT WILL BE THRILLED TO GIVE YOU FEEDBACK I’M SURE.**

That might have come across as a tad bitchy. Hopefully, given Greg’s hangover and the lack of inflection, it just read as helpful.

          No more texts came through, even though Mycroft stared at his phone for a good ten minutes. Finishing his now-cold tea with a grimace, he headed for the shower, deciding it would make him feel refreshed. If it were hot enough perhaps it would soothe his irritation, which was unaccountably high. Just due to his general malaise, no doubt. Nothing to do with the idea of a certain gorgeous man possibly ending his dry spell with Nancy Pierce.

          It was time to dress and meet the world; carry on as usual, as if his old lustful thoughts about a certain sinfully appealing silver-haired detective weren’t flaring with new life. The man was looking for a casual holiday acquaintance, not a torrid fling. Whatever sexual tension had existed last night had to be due down to his own woeful lack of a sex life, or all the alcohol. He was just imagining things.

          Mycroft pressed wet hands to his face and let the steaming water pound at his head as he gave in to one weak impulse and imagined just how torrid it could be. Greg might be straight, but deny it as he might, there was a very real and palpable chemistry between them, should they choose to acknowledge it. He’d admitted he was experiencing a dry spell—were the women of London _blind_ —and as for Mycroft…aside from one or two hasty liaisons a few years ago, he hadn’t known the intimate touch of another in far too long.

          It could be explosive.

          Or disastrous, he lectured himself sternly, soaping a flannel. Especially if Greg panicked at the idea of sex with a man. Or if the sex was bad. Or if Mycroft put him off with his cold demeanor. Greg was so warm, so vital and alive…surely he couldn’t truly find him attractive? If he were going to suddenly become attracted to a man this late in life, it would make more sense for him to succumb to someone with spirit and humour and warmth. Someone of equal beauty, someone with the same sunniness of personality.

          Mycroft looked into his shaving mirror, at his pale, haggard face, locked onto his bloodshot eyes and grimly told himself, “You are an aging fool.”

          Too vigorously, he shampooed his hair and finished his ablutions, toweling off briskly. Another round of paracetamol, some toast and a walk in the fresh air and then he would run his little-used car into Allendale for a few things not available at the local shops, and come home for an early dinner before this evening’s practice.

          After spending considerably more attention and time on dressing than was called for, and once more in command of himself, Mycroft stopped by the lounge for his mobile. He saw that he had received texts while showering, but he ignored them until he had a fresh cup of tea steaming gently in front of him, and a tidy stack of buttered toast awaiting his attentions. Not until he was halfway through both did he allow himself to check his messages.

          SORRY ABOUT THAT. I GOT A CALL FROM MY TEAM…EVEN THO THEY KNOW I’M ON HOLS. ALL SORTED NOW THO.

          AND I’VE BRUSHED MY TEETH SO I WON’T FRIGHTEN OFF THE FISH. I WAS WONDERING IF YOU WANTED TO JOIN ME? TBH, IM PROBABLY GOING TO END UP NAPPING BY A TREE, BUT I THOUGHT SOME FRESH AIR WOULD DO US BOTH GOOD.

          IF YOU WANT, THAT IS. YOU NEVER SAID IF YOU FISH.

          OR WE COULD GO FOR A WALK. OR A LITTLE HAIR OF THE DOG. DID YOUR 2ND POT OF TEA HELP? I’D MURDER THE NEXT INNOCENT BYSTANDER FOR A CUP OF COFFEE.

          I GUESS YOU’RE BUSY. I’M OFF THEN. SEE YOU AROUND? I STILL OWE YOU DINNER.

          Mycroft put down his mobile and sat thinking. After finishing his belated breakfast he washed his things and swept the table of crumbs. One last check of the larder to ensure he wasn’t missing any items from his mental list, a fresh bowl of food and water for the stray cat which had decided to adopt him, and a thorough locking of all doors and windows and he allowed himself to respond.

          **MY APOLOGIES, I WAS ATTENDING TO IMPORTANT MATTERS. I SHALL HAVE TO TAKE A RAIN CHECK ON YOUR GRACIOUS OFFER, AS MY SCHEDULE IS QUITE FULL. SOME OTHER TIME PERHAPS. ENJOY YOUR HOLIDAYS, IF I DON’T SEE YOU AGAIN.**

Silly for his thumb to hesitate before sending. Mycroft ruthlessly quashed his gutless wavering and sent the text on its way. It might take some work, but he could call London Mycroft to the fore to deal with his pesky feelings.

 

******

 

          Well that was pretty clear. Clear as fucking ice. Greg tossed his mobile aside, disgusted with himself for feeling so let down, and disgusted with Mycroft for the brush off. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why the other man was suddenly giving him the cold shoulder, but he was aware that it hurt more than it should.

          “Ought to be used to the sodding Holmes brothers by now,” Greg muttered, settling back in his unmade bed. He’d showered and was half-dressed, intending on finding both food to ease his querulous stomach as well as finding a nice lunch to pack up and take for the two of them, but now he didn’t want to bother. He felt like shit, it was his holiday and clearly he had no pressing reason to get out of bed. So he’d just stay in, nurse his hangover and his bruised feelings and tomorrow rise bright and early to go fishing.

          It was the reason for his coming here anyway, not to spend time with Sherlock Holmes’ dickhead brother who told him to his face he had a free day just the night before and then suddenly acted like he couldn’t spare a moment out of his busy schedule. The brush off was polite, he’d give him that, but the insult still smarted, for all that. So much for thinking how warm and witty and charming the man was. The whispers about him were right, he was an Ice Man.

          “Fuck ‘em all,” Greg decided, pulling the covers over his head. He wasn’t gay or bisexual or anything. It had just been the drink. And he wasn’t interested in Mycroft Holmes. He was just here to fish.

 

******

 

          Hours later, head still pounding, cheeks sore from keeping a polite smile on his face all through the interminable rehearsal, Mycroft sat alone in his cottage. The world beyond his windows was dark, a dreary wind blowing at the eaves as a fairly steady downpour lashed at the glass; he had the curtains drawn to shut it all out, but somehow the sound of the storm was lonely, rather than comforting as he usually found them. An unnecessary, but comforting, fire burned low on the hearth, and he swirled an untouched glass of brandy in his hand.

          The cat, who had somehow over time begun to winkle its way inside when the weather was inclement, had finished grooming itself with exquisite attention to detail, and was politely curled up on the cushion he had grudgingly provided. Mycroft was loath to admit it, but he found the presence of another living creature soothing. Even if said creature was a battered and disreputable stray whom he wished wouldn’t lick its rather sizeable gonads in his view.

          _I am a fussy old maid with a cat_ , Mycroft realized, laughing a little at his ridiculousness. Trust him to be adopted by a sullen, standoffish tom with trust issues and a disdain for physical contact.

          He’d always wanted a cat when he was younger. Mummy wouldn’t allow it, as she didn’t want a cat possibly scratching baby Sherlock. And then a few years later, of course, there was Eurus. He shuddered still, to think of the horrors his sister could have enacted against a cat. Almost petty compared to the operatic scale of her machinations and wholesale slaughtering, and yet for some reason the idea unsettled him.

          Well they were safe from her now—or so he supposed, being quite out of the loop—and there was no one to tell him no.

          “You can stay if you wish,” Mycroft said, feeling foolish. The cat opened one tawny eye lazily, closed it and went back to purring. “I suppose I should get a litter box—Lord—and take you to the veterinarian for your jabs.” He finally took a sip of his neglected drink, feeling faintly more cheerful. “And you need a name. A proper name.”

          The cat ignored him. Mycroft laid his head back against the high back of his favourite chair and put himself to the business of naming his newly adopted cat, rather than brooding anymore on his loneliness, or the empty feeling that had followed him all day. The wind changed directions, moaning hollowly, and the cat lifted its head briefly. “Aren’t you glad to be inside on a night like this?” Mycroft queried, “Safe and warm and dry instead of out in the wuthering wind.”

          He sat up, “Oh. Yes, of course. Heathcliff.” The cat had, after all, first appeared to him on a night not unlike this one, only much colder, and with the threat of snow. And despite all his kindnesses, he was usually rebuffed by a surly attitude. “I think it suits you, impudent devil that you are.”

          Heathcliff sat up, stretched and turned his back on Mycroft, settling back down to sleep. “Oh yes, it truly does suit you.” For some reason the idea of owning this cat—or being owned by him, as he suspected would be the case—left him feeling much more tranquil than he had all day.

          _You let something in_ ; he could imagine Dr. Medwick telling him in his dry, pedantic voice, _you have opened a chink in your armor. I told you, Mycroft, you have to stop thinking of yourself as a solitary man, or you will always be a solitary man. Learn to lower your defenses._

          Greg’s happy face came to mind, his easy laughter, the camaraderie he’d felt when they played darts. The warmth of his body so near his own as they said goodnight; God, how easy it had been to picture himself leaning in and kissing him, taking his beautiful jaw, with its faintly silvery stubble, and holding his face to gaze into what were surely the warmest pair of eyes in the world. There was something there, something between them, so close and tantalizing, and he’d turned from it.

          Not giving himself time to talk his way out of the impulse, Mycroft picked up his mobile and dialed Greg. The ringing made him anxious; any moment and it would go to voice mail. He wasn’t sure he could leave a message of this nature. Mycroft pictured Greg glancing at his display, his mouth turning down when he saw who was calling, deciding not to answer. The image was so vivid that when the older man answered he paused for too long, and heard a cautious, “Mycroft?”

          “Oh. Greg, hi.” He closed his eyes and wondered where all his vaunted poise had gone. “I’m sorry if it’s too late to call.”

          “Naw, it’s fine…I slept most of the day, so I’m wide awake now.” His voice sounded polite, but lacked the former warmth.

          “I—I wanted to call and apologize,”

          “Oh?”

          “Yes. I lied to you in my text this morning. I wasn’t busy—I later ensured my day was full, but in fact, I was avoiding you.” His heart thudded painfully as his breath became laboured, and Mycroft pressed a hand to his chest, hoping he wasn’t going to do something as humiliating as experience one of his rare panic attacks. “I actually wanted quite strongly to spend time with you.”

          There was a sizeable pause, and then Greg’s voice, sounding slightly confused, “Alright…so why did you lie?”

          Mycroft stared at Heathcliff, remembered how pleasant the idea of no longer being alone had been. “When was your last relationship?”

          Clearly confused, he answered, “Um, about two years ago, I guess, if you’re not counting casual dating, although it didn’t last long,” he sounded as if the brevity of the relationship still puzzled him, “And before that…well, my wife pretty much destroyed my self-confidence, so there were a few dates after I divorced, but nothing you’d call a relationship, and before that it was just her for twenty-five years.”

          “My last relationship was in 2002.”

          “Oh. Uh, so, it’s uh, been a while, eh?” Greg cleared his throat, “I’m sorry…that it hurt you that badly.”

          “What? No. I was not hurt by the termination of that relationship,” Not that particular one, at rate. “I am trying to say…I don’t do relationships, I don’t get close to people—I don’t let them in. In fact, for three years I have actively tried to acquaint myself with people while still maintaining a distance. I’ve been successful at that, as I’m sure you can imagine. But last night, in the space of a few hours…you breezed right through all my defenses with laughable ease.” He pinched his thigh hard, trying to focus on something other than his rising panic, “I am not used to making myself emotionally available to anyone for any reason.” Even saying the words “emotionally available” made him want to sneer.

          Greg was silent. Mycroft licked his lips, prepared to go on, but before he could, the other man spoke. “Mycroft, last night…did you know I wanted to kiss you goodnight quite badly?”

          “I…yes. I was aware there was a certain…attraction between us.”

          Greg’s voice warmed with a hint of friendly laughter, “Considering I’ve never before in my life wanted to kiss another man, I’d say “certain attraction” was putting it mildly…at least on my end.”

          “It was more than that on my end as well. But Greg…I have no interest in being someone’s holiday fling into sexual exploration.” Although when he said it out loud it sounded incredibly stupid. Who wouldn’t wish to join Greg in sexual exploration? Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he wasn’t the smart one.

          “I’m not asking for anything you aren’t interested in giving, Mycroft. Hell, I’m not even sure what it is that I want.” Greg’s stubble rasped against the phone and Mycroft tried to quell the quiver in his stomach. “But would you be averse to a little light romance and some heavy petting?” He was joking, but serious too. It was clear he was nervous, but his natural courage shone through that and allowed him to say what Mycroft wouldn’t have.

          He smiled despite himself. “That sounds perfectly acceptable.” It sounded fucking heavenly, actually, but he wasn’t going to gush.

          “Good. I’m not promising anything, but if you were to invite me to yours for dinner one night this week, well…perhaps we could see where this takes us.” The faint sound of a shaky exhale clued Mycroft into the nerves which Greg was hiding quite well.

          “Is tomorrow too soon?”

          He laughed when Greg did, and for a moment felt as if the other man was in the room with him. It was a lovely feeling.

          “Tomorrow sounds perfect. Can I bring anything? I’m sure you have all sorts of fancy wine but maybe I could bring a dessert or something?”

          “Please, you don’t need to do that. In fact, I’m looking forward to cooking for you…it has been far too long since I shared my home with anyone.” The only other person being the cleaning woman who came weekly, and the vicar, who had come to welcome him to the village and never returned after being treated to a series of questions on theological debate which he was unable to answer.

          “And I’m looking forward to eating.”

          There was no reason he should regard those words with special meaning, only it was damn hard not to when they were spoken in _that_ tone. “Er, yes.”

          Greg laughed, “Sorry, was that too much?” He sighed lustily, and Mycroft heard the rustle of sheets, as if he had shifted in his bed. The vision of the other man in bed, his skin thrillingly dark against the white sheets, the covers low over his hips…God, it was arresting. “I promise I’ll be on my best company manners tomorrow.”

          Should he? “Well…hopefully not all night.”

          Greg groaned faintly, and Mycroft smiled, shifting a bit in his chair, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll relax at some point.”

          They spent a little longer on the phone before reluctantly saying goodnight. Mycroft, feeling lighter and more optimistic than at any time in recent memory, turned off the lamps but left the embers of the fire glowing, adjusting the fire screen with care. “There is no need for you to move from that spot,” he informed Heathcliff, “If I find one mess on my floors when I come down in the morning, you can consider my invitation to live here effectively null and void. And I don’t want to find you on my bed, do you understand?”

          The cat ignored him and he sighed, wondering if this was a good idea

          When he woke in the middle of the night to use the toilet, he disturbed Heathcliff, who grumbled and moved to lie on the empty pillow beside his own. “Well, just this once,” Mycroft allowed. There was a certain tranquility in falling asleep to the sound of purring, knowing there was a warm presence beside him in bed. Still, he spent a few drowsy moments lying awake, smiling at his darkened ceiling as he anticipated the following day. In approximately twelve hours, Greg would be in his house.

          Still smiling, Mycroft turned over to sleep, certain that for once his dreams would be peaceful. After all, he had something quite marvelous to which he was looking forward.

 

         

 

         

         

 

         

         


End file.
